I'll Be Your Mirror
by Magical Shovel
Summary: Of all the people within Sanitarium Island, he was surely the vainest. One-shot: Rated 'T' for violence and swearing on Luigi's behalf.


**Disclaimer: **I don't own the last two lines of this fic. They're from a song. They belong to Lou Reed. The other characters and Repo! The Genetic Opera belong to Terrance Zdunich and Darren Smith. Boy, disclaimers are annoying. :c I'm poor, but rich in reviews! I mean, fans! I mean, laughter! ...You get the point?

**A/N: **I'm on a roll! Ha cha cha! Sorry about another dark fic. I guess I've been angsty as of late and stressed. Nope, this isn't Pavigi, you silly fans. Just some brotherly love, I guess. It's more of a Pavi-centric fic. One more thing, some of you may be wondering why this fic seems to be jumping around a bit. It's not. I simply condensed time. Woops. Typo alert. 'Thing' should be 'Thin'. Now that I fixed it... xD Well, read on!

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Mirrors. He fell in love with his reflection. Bright, blue eyes stared straight back at him. A pleasant smile with perfect, white teeth enhanced his model-esque features. Locks, the shade of a crow (not quite a raven), curled above his shoulders. The front of his mane was slicked back by some infamous product. Pale skin, the color of perfection, could not be described in any other way. Lips remained in the same, flawless smile. If anything, he was perfection sought and bought. He was Paviche Largo, a God in his own way.

No one had ever been so vain.

Not even Dorian Gray.

Naturally, his presence graced the media. They both adored and envied him. During charities, men and women flocked to him. They craved him like a drug with his designer labels, alluring personality, and glorious background. He was a prince within a ruined world. His stride, alone, consisted of royalty and confidence. Not even the fame could dismiss his snide thoughts, however. being a proper gentleman, Paviche never one spoke to those mental musings.

_What atrocious hair. Another surgery would suit her best. Why, isn't he in desperate need of comfort?_

And so on.

At least he had been raised to be well-mannered compared to his siblings, Carmella and Luigi. Both were brash and arguementative, yet he loved them equally. ...Even if they bickered like cats and dogs continuously. Ah, well. Was it not mind over manners? People of all ages live vicariously through Paviche, until the incident.

He lost his face. Rather, he _lost_ face.

Thanks to his father's gentle coaxing, he pursued the 'Replace Your Face' Campaign. That was self-explanatory. He should have known better upon entering the dimly lit room. It was their fault. The surGEN's fingers were not nimble. Those gloved hands trembled as the scalpel slid across flesh. He knew it. There was no other reason for him to be this way. What exactly was _this?_

Humiliation.

It was degrading.

A-

_Monster._

A cry of rage interrupted the vivacity of the violin. No longer was his face distinguished, but unidentifiable. Fine skin had been drastically altered. It was a bright, fiery red. It taunted him. Veins pulsed in his temple. Never had Paviche been prone to fits of rage. Until now, that was. Deformed lips curled into an equally distasteful sneer. He clawed at the mirror, breaking manicured nails in the process. He then proceeded with a flurry of punches aimed at the reflective glass. A growing sense of agony rose from the core of his heart.

Finally, he calmed down to compose himself. The mirror was shattered, bent at twisted angles. Shards sprinkled the vanity and the plush rug as well as his fists. Red tinted the clear glass as it trickled like rain down a windowpane. There was no solution to the problem. With a growing sense of satisfaction, he discovered an alternative. The classical music ran in sync with his falsetto.

Laughter beyond sanity filled the room.

"You're fucking crazy, Pavi. Ever since that damn accident, you've changed. To think I thought you were creepy _before_," his brother emitted a crude chuckle.

"Incident," Paviche mildly corrected the other male in a polite manner. Face or not, he remained vain. Pride and vain were too different things, you see. The prince had both.

"Same fucking thing, asshole. Same fucking thing."

His brother understood in some demented way or another. His sister did not. Carmella (not quite Amber) was no longer a sweet, young girl. She was an addict to fame, surgery, and the likes. Yet, her story was one reserved for another book all together. This was not her tale, after all. It was Paviche's.

"You look like an iron hit you in the face," she drawled with the occasional pause. It was a bit redundant, her speech, but effective.

It was best to ignore the youngest. She, too, craved attention.

"Hey douche bag."

Luigi again.

"The fuck's going on through your peanut-sized brain?"

"Nothing."

Luigi grunted, dissatisfied with the invoked response. Before the 'incident', Paviche would mindlessly prattle on about benign subjects. It would grow to the point of having a silver blade caress his throat. Nonetheless, he would talk all the more to annoying his old brother. Call it sibling rivalry if you will. Now, there were few words on Paviche's behalf. There was the constant stash and dash, avoiding everything in plain sight. He had been reduced to a simple spectator, mourning at his own loss.

Life went on.

Her body was growing colder by the second. Brown hair snaked past her exposed shoulders. Those gray eyes had fluttered shut. Her red mask was hung askew, white dress crumpled. It happened a tad too quick. Was it blurry? Was it focused? No, it was neither according to his recollection. She reached out to touch his face, presumably to caress the distorted flesh.

Paviche pushed her away in disgust. Her temple hit the mahogany desk and there laid her unconscious form. He was never abusive, never one to lash out. He had always been a kind, generous lover. So, why the brutality? The vain man took a step back in alarm. His hands rose in a declaration of self-innocence.

_Such a shame to waste a beautiful face..._

An idea followed the notion. There was a way to replace his face. Cerulean orbs darted back tot he form at his feet whilst the hinges of the door squeaked. Calvin Kleins clicked across the floor, halting before the scene. There was a low whistle of amusement. Luigi bent forward, lowering himself to peer at the two. Something was off in his brother's eyes. Those cruel orbs begged for destruction and chaos. One of his hands rested upon his knee whilst the other held what appeared to be a mirror. Paviche's features darkened drastically.

"What are you-a doing here, eh? What did you-a here?"

He didn't take the time to reply, simpling handing his brother the odd device. He rose followed by the sharp cracking of compressed bones. Calvin Kleins clicked away, yet the words remained.

"Walls are fucking thin."

Thin walls.

Paviche stifled a chuckle or a sniffle. He wasn't sure which. He took the object, gazing back at the bruised nurse. It was then that he realized that it was not an ordinary mirror. The etchings on the back were ornate with an intricate design. The handle curbed into a sharp blade, causing him to shake his head in wonder.

Silver caressed sun-kissed skin. The knife slid below the surface. No noise had been emitted whatsoever. The skin lifted as he removed the blade. His breath quickened as he lowered the mirror. Pale fingers slid beneath the skin, pulling it from the young woman's tender flesh. Twitching muscle remained as wide eyes gaped at him in shock. With a mocking smile, Paviche placed the trophy where it rightfully belonged.

A scream shook the Largo household. All chose to ignore it. Before she could run for her life, he snatched the weapon of her very demise. The balde repeatedly plunged into the cavity of her chest. Blood splattered, sprinkling his face like a torrent of rain. Long, slim fingers delicately ran down the rubbery skin. His heart beat soared to new levels. This was a new form of high for him. The mirror rose. His fame was guaranteed once more.

Paviche Largo was beautiful.

_Let me stand to show that you are blind._

_I'll be your mirror._


End file.
